From His Darkness
by RachyBaby09
Summary: From the moment of his birth, Erik was born into darkness. This is the Phantom's journey from the beginning. Erik's quest for love amongst hatred & cruelty. The Opera Ghost's ageless love story. Sexy, sensual, horrific, romantic, & witty! KAY BASED.
1. The Unborn Child

This phic will be close to Susan Kay's. Though, it'll become much different after the first couple chapters…consisting of original content. =) Also, I plan on transitioning to his time with Christine much quicker than Kay's…It's divided into 'parts' and alternate point of views. Please take a moment to review if you read!…Even if it's a couple worlds. =) Thanks! *Passes out Erik cookies*

* * *

**PART I—Madeline**

**The Unborn Child**

_Friday, December 13 and 14, 1816…_

An angel's glorious cry erupted from my womb, spilling out into the surrounding dark. And how terribly beautiful that cry was! His was a bittersweet cry, music to my ears, and I wept from its sheer grace. Smoke from the candle's deceased flame swirled about in a mystifying cloud, white and pasty against the bottomless expanse of black. Such a spectacle was wildly becoming, as it intensified the spiritually of the sentimental moment at hand: the meeting of mother and child.

From the moment of birth, Erik was born into darkness.

The dancing illumination had dissolved into the night, almost forebodingly, only moments prior to Erik's arrival. Being the superstitious and primitive widow that I had de-evolved into—a true slave to all things holy—I was taken aback by the candle's impeccable timing for dark surrender. The mighty shadows, which had been brilliantly cast along the bedchamber's walls, proved fine company over those murderous hours. Oh! The gentle radiance had bled across the smooth surface, blending with the crimson paint, staining the walls with their wavering shafts of light. The soft illumination had softened and eased my senses. I had worshiped their aura. I missed their magic.

But it was no wonder that the candlewick met its destined end. Labor had been long and fatiguing; it was a miracle that I managed to survive such a treacherous thing!

My poor, unhappy Erik! Born prematurely, he'd dwelt within the warm, sanctuary of my womb a mere seven and half months! Needless to say, his tears of emergence were a divine relief for me; a breath of fresh air. I expected my child to be born into this world only to die. And while his strangely impressive—his rather intriguing—cry sang out to me, I knew the good Lord had answered my prayers once more.

Erik would live!

From the first moments that I knew I was with child, each night, un-relentlessly, I had prayed he might be a boy. Charles—my childhood sweetheart, lover, soul mate, one and only—was taken from me just six months after our little one's fashioning. A fluke accident, involving poorly constructed corbel arches, was said to blame. I never bought into this ridiculous hogwash; Charles had passionately mastered the arts in its every form. Indeed, he had been a master mason, composer, philosopher, a mad scientist…whether it had been his musical compositions, philosophical queries, or mathematical equations, Charles tolerated no room for error. He was not one to miscalculate.

Erik would have done him proud.

And my heart embraced every good, Catholic intention that our son was to carry out his father's name…to walk in his image, so to speak. She would have been Charlene—had Erik been a girl.

Charles and I: ours had been story book love, straight from the pages of only the most heartfelt of romances. I could only pray our son would be so fortunate!

Endless nights, straying far into the wee hours of morning, Charles and I often debated our son's fate. We came to an eventual agreement that he'd inherit Charles' bright eyes of sapphire blue, my too-sweet dimple, my papa's healthy head of hair, and Charles' mother's hot attitude… And, of course, my natural knack for singing, alongside Charles' renowned violin skills! His eyes or my smile: it was only beauty which we ever had to offer our child.

Over these routine talks, both of our eyes were enlightened by an indescribable and rare innocence. We shamelessly returned ourselves to those countless summer afternoons and nights belonging to our youths. Even in our earliest years of adolescence—those same years I sincerely thought Charles to be infected by cooties—we did not blush to trade thoughts, aspirations and hopes concerning our 'children' to be. It was an odd thing; Charles and I had envisioned a life for us, disregarding the notion of love entirely. We overlooked that which any fruitful marriage is built upon. We half-mindedly projected the bliss—which we had grown with—onto our poor, poor unborn babies! We spoke well beyond our years, bearing all the pride of any good parent.

"She shall be as lovely, beautiful, and talented as her mother, I am quite certain," Charles melodramatically declared. "And as charming, suave, and sharp-witted as his papa, undoubtedly." He grinned like a schoolboy.

I mirrored his grin, and couldn't help but say, "…and as bullheaded, I very well fear!"

Charles took no offense. He never did, bless his soul. He simply chuckled out his amusement—a richly melodic sound—flinging me into an embrace. I'd always felt safe and at home within the security of his arms. I can only hope Charles had felt the same.

Although Erik was the first child of Charles and me to be born, he wasn't the first to be conceived. I had suffered several miscarriages, amongst other tragedies—to which I will not speak—and after my belly had grown to a healthy five and a half months, Charles and I were confident that the vicious circle of disappoints and heartache had come to a final close. The night is darkest before the dawn; we believed our dawn was surely on its rise. We believed that the coming sunlight would gently brush away those ever-flowing tears, kissing our stained cheeks with their glowing caresses. We could not have been more wrong!

I loved Charles; I always had. I always will. It had been a matter of mere days that I managed to fall head over heels with our unborn child. It was for the sake of our evergreen love that I needed _him_ to be a boy.

I knew my wish had been fulfilled.

* * *

Always, I'd thought a newborn's cry to be sexless—bland and unmoving as the day is long. Erik's was not. As soon as the sweet, sweet music of his tears washed over me, I knew it was little _Charles_ whom had graced the world. The miraculous reality of the moment claimed the very best of me; I wept once more.

I decided this had been a night of miracles! A proud, maternal smile was painted across my lips.

Oh, and _his_ cry! What an oddly captivating—almost _morbidly_ so—sound it was…masculine, bold, possessive…brimming with every human emotion. Everything a newborn's is not…or should not be. It was all rather unorthodox. Had I not given birth seconds before, I might have mistaken his cry for an elderly mans!

He was beckoning me, demanding my motherly love; with everything in me, I could not deny him! Not in a thousand lifetimes could I quite express that mysterious attachment…that power Erik's cry reins over my entire being. It was wool over my eyes, blinding and deceitful. That thin line, separating reality from illusion, sanity from reason, magic from the palpable, was suddenly obscured.

The umbilical cord, which had entwined our two existences, wasn't truly severed. There had always been an improper dependency tying mine and Erik's soul. As much as I'd made it a point to shun Erik, hiding him from both the world and myself…I had inhabited a curious fascination about him…

This fascination was border-line incestuous. I was convinced Satan would gladly claim my soul for such a thing. The world is an upside-down paradox; you see, opposite emotions are not opposites. No. They are all devastatingly alike: terror and enticement…blessing and curse…demon and angel…love and hate. In my old age, I've come to believe that there exists a single emotion—one state of mind—which rules humanity: fear.

Though I speak like a madwoman, it was Erik who wept like a true, breathing angel. If only you heard! The aftershocks of labor pains had ceased their torment; his cry was akin to the charming flutter of a butterfly's wings. They collected me within their comforting shell, as my soul soared high into the bounties of Apollo's Lair, and further yet. I feared nothing; any fall would have been cushioned by the delicate rhythm of Erik's soothing voice.

It was all very hypnotizing and insanely unnatural. It was insanity at its rawest.

If my mind hadn't been as diluted as it was, I would have been scared out of my skin.

Then…

In contrast to my son's heavenly cry, a daunting 'gasp' also _cried _out in flawless symphony…competing for my attention…hidden…swimming, somewhere, amongst the sea of quaint black. I could only feel anger. A hatred I'd never known before devoured my entire being!

I recognized the shrill sound to be Elise's, my chambermaid's. It was the same routine shriek she made, time and time again, while crossing paths with one of the rats nesting in the dingy basement below. Apart from the hellishly embarrassing underground lair of my home, the house was ridiculously grandiose…gorgeous…a shrine, boasting everything high society could ever hope to offer. Wrong as it was—neglecting that little slice of my home which dwelt beneath my feet—I could never quite imagine a reason for its upkeep, nor Elise's labor. It was hidden…unattractive and terribly dark…really! What did it matter if it was left unloved?

"Hidden or set in plain sight…fashionable or ugly…truly, what difference does it make, Madeline? It rests as a part of your home, still! A part of you and Charles, dare I say! May God rest his poor soul…oh, Madeline—have you really no shame? No sense of pride?" Elise too often lectured, only half jokingly.

Dearest Elise; she always wore her same mature hair bun—one an old spinster wears—yet bore eyes as wide and innocent as her soul. I was twenty, just four years Elise's senior…and far more naïve than she. Perhaps, this was only fault of my sheltered upbringing. Perhaps, I was in denial.

Retuning to my child's birth.

Elise finally addressed me after an extended silence. A withheld shudder was evident in her chest.

"Oh, M-M-Madeline…Oh, my…Good Lord in Heaven!…Christ, have mercy!" Although I perceived no more than Elise's meek silhouette, I knew she crossed herself.

A deafening silence fell over us all—his cries, also, subdued—as if Erik understood the tragedy at hand.

Father Lefevre approached my bedside—his steps uncharacteristically long and dragging—while the last of Elise's terror struck words faded away.

He dabbed away the film of sweat with a damp cloth. Sweat beaded from the seam of my forehead. The cool water streamed down the length of my face in strides, mingling with the salt of my piling tears. My unhappy son's cry sounded out, as Father Lefevre found my hand amongst the sullied bed sheet…remaining silent.

My dainty hand lost itself within his grip, as he gave it a tender squeeze. After a lingering moment sulked by, he led my forehand—which now shook ferociously—up to his lips. I couldn't help but shudder as the aged leather of his flesh grazed over my porcelain skin. My reaction wasn't one of neither distaste nor disgust; somehow, someway, my heart understood the meaning of Father Lefevre's gesture.

Again, Erik cried out, his vocals expanding and exploring their un-childish strength. The music of his tears devastated me beyond all words; my paining gut seemed to swallow my throat. It burned, cringed…it burned again. My churning stomach twisted into a thousand knots, and then a thousand more. I wanted nothing greater than to comfort my weeping angel! I was being denied this small pleasure of motherhood…loving my son.

Father Lefevre's soulful eyes parted from mine. He studied the _singing_ newborn with a burning gaze—my beautiful, beautiful son…mine and Charles' belated gift to humanity. I watched Father Lefevre's distinguished features with a keen interest…the way they seemed to wrinkle, shift and darken, his fair complexion paling to an unhealthy hue…as though he's laid eyes upon a ghost…an abomination…or some wretched demon of Hell.

I was fuming! Beyond madness! How could he dare to not acknowledge the beauty of mine and Charles' creation?

"F-Father," I found the nerve to choke, my voice barely above a whisper. His eyes abandoned both the boy and Elise, settling into my own. Those eyes: they bore into the depths of my soul.

"Father? Is…is everything quite alright?" I asked, fearful of the terror which was buried in his gaze.

Silence. My head spun round and round in a vicious cyclone, growing in speed and ferocity; his hand slid from mine. Abandonment!

"My son!" I pleaded and demanded, my voice quickly escalating to a panic. "Enough! Enough of this—t-this cruelty! I-I should like to see my son!"

Father Lefevre patted the washcloth over his own forehead in tentative touches, seducing away a building migraine. He inhaled a long breath before daring to meet his eyes with mine—first summoning his courage to do so. He was behaving as if conducting a grim funeral mass, rather than the birth of my dear child!

His gaze locked with mine at last. Those eyes were lined with unsettling sympathy. Such a pitiful look betrayed his cool façade. I knew he'd seen something horrific…monstrously inconceivable…something which would forever manipulate our wedded fates.

The quite seemed to thicken. This silence could be severed by the dullest of weaponry. And I had never been more furious or hurt.

"I demand my son!"—Nothing—"Listen, if you dare! Can you truly not hear my child's cry and all the pain which it bears? It is at _your _cold hands he suffers!"

I blushed, far too aware of my infantile words. It was exhausting; it had become a habit, blaming others for my own misfortunes, nesting within a cocoon of oblivion.

It was then that the soggy bundle, which was dear my son, was placed into the shelter of my arms. My limbs were quaking—from anger or exhaustion, I could not know—and I immediately feared dropping him. That, alone, would have been deserving of death.

In moments, his cries of agony melted into coos of bliss. My head rose in an arrogant triumph; for the first time, I felt like a flesh and blood mother. My surroundings faded away—the lovely bouquet of roses; silk curtains…all the petty _things_ of life were diminished to nothingness—leaving only me and my son in my wake. Cradling Erik within my shyly trembling clutch…I could have died knowing the entire world's happiness. It was my destiny fulfilled. An aura of completeness washed over me.

Erik stirred the slightest bit, his woolen blanket slipping from his face. It was no secret that Elise had attempted to veil him from my eyes. But what she did not know, was that I _saw nothing _over those fleeting and transient moments…it was only night's embrace that I made out. My vision was blurry, mind delusional. I was unable to adapt to my bedchamber's darkness. The wool over my eyes vastly thickened; I was blinded, and in every which way.

I was in need of tangible proof—"empirical evidence", Charles would have reasoned—of my son's birth; his cry could have very well been an illusion of the mind…it was anything but tangible! It was the work of God's fairest angels. I could not see him; I would need to feel him!

I gingerly peeled the blanket from his face…one of many blankets which I'd lovingly knitted for him…the terrible barrier shielding my hands from my baby.

I imagined he must have been struggling to breathe; the blanket was close to suffocating him. I clutched Erik to my breast, protecting him from the winter's sting and Elise's cruelty. Within that moment, I silently vowed that he'd never have to know humanity's wretchedness. I continued to snuggle my little angel, my grasp becoming more possessive…lifting his little forehead up, up to my lips…

My clasp hardened. I released him without sparing a second thought.

Two minutes passed before I held him again.

This time, I did not dare kiss him…he had smelt unnatural.

He smelt of death.

Regardless, I forced my hands to his face and explored the unknown. His skin was uneven, cratered here and there…like aged, ruined parchment…eyes sunken into a prominent skull…his lips paper thin, malformed, dry as a shriveled fruit peel. What horror! Tiny veins protruded, bravely pulsating against my fingertips in a willful defiance. Horror! Horror! Horror! His flesh was no thicker than a transparent film, stretched painfully across his exposed skull. My angel felt more like a monster—or a rotted corpse—than anything else.

Heavens! That was not the worst of it.

My finger fell into the hole that was his nose—or absence of a nose.

And that was when I first saw it. A pair of golden stars flickered and danced before me. God in Heaven! They were two deviously glowing _eyes_, I now feared…that seared my flesh!

My heart skipped several beats. Then, it skipped several more. My blood froze over and head pounded like a drum. My throat was parched…dry…a waterfall of perspiration showered from my hairline. What had I created?

_Had he lived?_

I said a silent prayer.

"Father…" The empty word trailed off.

"Madeline…I…I believe it is crucial that…he…be baptized in light of our good Lord. Here and now, my dear."

The meaning of his words were ugly. He spoke as if Erik's poor soul bestowed far more than his share of original sin.

I said and saw nothing, save for the priest's ironically demonic silhouette. He crossed both me and my son in a rushed and unsteady motion.

Father Lefevre glanced over at Elise in silent command, and she stepped towards my bedside, ever so slowly, an unlit candle balanced within the palm of her hand. She set it upon the stand; her pupils dilated undoubtedly three sizes, as she took three steps away from me and the abomination that was my son. The cackling sound of a struck match followed shortly after. Father Lefevre brought the fiery wand level to his eyes. My heart sank deeply into my chest. He, too, had begun to weep. I understood.

The wavering illumination began its descent, down, down, down to the perked and erected candlewick—

"Please, no!"

My son jerked at the surprise of my voice, clearly bothered. I gave him a quick and affectionless sway, and he cooed his delight. He surrendered to the throws of slumber. I was jealous; I'd granted Erik the same rest he'd robbed me of. A tainted and foreign resentment, some twisted spite, was already forming deeply inside me. An avalanche of regret and misplaced hatred was building, freakishly quick. I feared the day it would become too great a burden and inevitably cave, crushing both of our souls within a landslide of possessed emotion…

Father Lefevre threw me a questioning gaze. He was just as disturbed as my little Erik had been.

"I…I…" I could not bring myself to say it. It was blasphemy at its worst. I inhaled one, long breath, battling and cursing my weak soul.

I threw up those terrible, terrible words: "Please, Father…no light…_no light_…"

And what a demented request it had been. Even now, well beyond the grave, I cringe…

"Madeline, you know quite well…light is needed for such a sacred thing as this." I remained in a determined silence. "Possibly, you can't wish to baptize your child in darkness' abyss, shall you?"

But this was no ordinary child! I allowed silence to be my answer. I was simply a disabled child, stubbornness being my crutch.

"Very well," he mumbled in defeat, snuffing away the flinching match…a match which could show my son!

A strange calm washed over me. Relief took hold. Father Lefevre agreed to my unholy terms! Surely…special layers of Hell must exist…scorching, burning, inescapable layers, reserved for souls only as evil—and as unashamedly corrupt—as mine!

The epiphany of discovering my true self was a burden I was not ready to carry. Life had been a merry-go-round of pretty make-believe and fantasy; I wasn't prepared—and certainly not strong enough—for my dreams to shatter.

Moment by moment, revelation by revelation, I was discovering humanity's flaws. I was learning the horrific and ugly truth. The good Book had not lied; we _are_ created in God's image. Our God is deceiving. Our God is a flawed one.

Alas! Erik resembles the deity by which all wonders are created and destroyed.

To have it eloquently put: our God is an evil genius. Until this day, my most painful regret is not discovering this moral sooner—and I have led a lifetime of irrevocable sin after sin! Time makes the impact of this ultimate reality all the more devastating. Its potency depends on the amount of passed time. You, too, will understand…one day. Infidel or believer—at the end of time, no soul is saved.

We are all possessed and far too proud to dare and exorcise our devils.

And I felt increasingly ill.

"A name, my dear…for his baptizing ceremony to complete…I am in need of your son's _Christian _name…"

It was amusing…Father Lefevre demanding Erik's Christian name. All of France knew he was to be named Charles!

Within that silence a haunting poem—one written by the master of terror, Edgar Allan Poe—invaded my thoughts…a poem…one Charles and I'd been horrifically fond of…

"_Lo! It is a gala night, within the lonesome latter years!_

_An angel, bewinged, drowns in tears._

_Sit in a theatre to see a play of hopes and fears._

_The orchestra breathes music of the spheres…_

_With its Phantom chased forever, by a crowd that seizes it not._

_Much of Madness and more of Sin and Horror: the soul of the plot._

_A crawling shape intrudes!_

_A blood-red thing writhes from scenic solitude!_

_It writhes! Out! Out are the lights!_

_Over each quivering form,__the curtain__comes down with the rush of a storm._

_The angels_ _cry out:_

_This play is the traged__y: _

_Erik._

First, a moment of silence…then:

"Erik."

Nothing. The priest did nothing; the priest said nothing.

No. Father Lefevre did not pursue the ritual, for reasons still mystery to me…

"I am quite tired. I think I shall retire for the night," I recited mechanically, my tone void of emotion.

"Very well. Come now, Elise—I suppose it best to leave Madeline to her much deserved peace of mind. Madeline, you are in dire need of your rest."

Peace of mind? Rest? I pondered, inwardly scoffing my disgust.

The two persons, who had been my one pillar of strength ever since Charles' death, left without a second thought…leaving only me and my…child…

"Elise, a moment, please…if you may," I pleaded. Like some sickeningly obedient mongrel, she cowered over to my heel, awaiting her master's command.

"Father Lefevre is perfectly excused," I explained, fully aware that he stood in the bedchamber's archway. "If you wouldn't mind—if it shan't be of much trouble to you…I'd like very much if you would find it in your heart to accompany me…until _daybreak_ …"

I chose my words with great care. My voice was grim, as if pronouncing her death sentence, and not a perfectly reasonable request. After all, it was a true wonder that I had lived through Erik's birth and three miscarriages.

Some unseen and magnificent force—let it be angel or demon, God or Satan, Erik or Charles—had spared my life, and on more than one occasion. Though, as I let myself imagine a world not paved with perfection and beauty, a son who's far from the excellence I had prophesized, and a life lived in loneliness…I doubt the 'miracle' of my life being spared. But who am I to question those forces which command the universe? Who am I to think my child unworthy of me? I must stop and ask: what is the point of life…a life without knowing love? Imagine: there can't be a justified reason for life…for living…if, at the end of time, we all die alone.

There must be a reason for Erik!

"Why, of course, madam. Of course. I would like nothing more."

Elise's attempt to mask her misery failed. She knew this. Those doleful eyes were drowning in apologetic tears. And I'd already forgiven her!

"I shall be in the drawing room, should you need anything." She inched towards the door, her pace slowing with each step. To my amazement, she came to a full halt.

"Anything at all, Madeline. Simply call on me."

"Yes, thank you, my dear. I'm truly fortunate to have your help. You are very kind." She smiled her most genuine smile.

Erik and I were left alone, and I found myself asking… _Am I living in a trance? Am I a prisoner to a ghoulish nightmare? _

Had I only slept?

Three hours later I called for Elise. I was in need of only her _company_; I was…terrified.

In vain, I cried out, "Elise, Elise, Elise," countless times! I had been forgotten. I panicked! I was terrified that my voice would wake…him! Who knows what travesty I may have committed, had Erik sung again…

She had left. Elise: she had left me. For the first time, in all the years I'd depended on her care, Elise left me in total isolation!

All I could do was wait. Wait until daybreak. Wait until dawn pursued its rise. Until morning's light gave way, it would be me, my son, and the bottomless night.

* * *

Dawn's first rays shattered the airy curtains in holy shafts of light. My head was throbbing with pain I hadn't known existed. I squinted against dawn's blaring assault. Several minutes drifted over me before I was able to make sense of the moment; the daylight was harsh, unruly and blinding. In all my years, I'd fancied the notion of daylight and the promise of hope it brings. But on this morning, within this moment, it only enhanced my flushed and tear-stained cheeks—rather than drying them away.

My first thought: I must have died.

I must be dead. Most certainly! This was Heaven! …Or so I fantasized. Fantasy had become my favorite escape; I had invented a world free of deceit and tragedy…a realm rid of star-crossed lovers and the scorned.

"C-Charles?" I pitifully called out. My heart sulked. Only a throbbing silence had been the reply.

My second thought: I must be trapped! Caged within a lucid prison! This is _all_ a lucid dream. A dream which I'll soon awake! An alternate dimension to the unblemished world I've known and loved!

The only world.

My third and final thought was the most devastating: I remembered.

Suddenly, I felt the pains of giving birth!

Then, my senses softened and limbs relaxed. I recalled the most beautiful sound to ever grace my ears: my son's cry!

My sliver of peace fled as quickly as it'd come. Darkness tucked me beneath a pair of blackened wings. I remembered the abandonment of Father Lefvere and Elise. I remembered I was alone.

I remembered him…the creature I had given life.

I peered down at Erik through my lush blanket of lashes, blinking away imminent tears.

He must be dead.

Oh! He had begged for my motherly affection with those crystal tears…he'd cried for my nurturing and love!

An awful feeling of guilt and self-hatred welled deeply inside me. I glanced down at the foul and unmoving corpse that had been my son.

In death he was very ugly.

Everything that I had _felt_, hours ago, was true to the touch; the protruding and cracked skull, wide craters—which indented the infertile ground of his face…or lack of—shriveled skin and tight lips, bulging veins, his splintered features…it was grotesque. It was what the most horrific nightmares are composed of. I would have screamed at the very _sight_ of Erik…but, no! I was completely entranced…I lifted into a state of morbid awe. Peering down at Erik, my disgust equalled my amazement. Not in all my years had I seen something so tragic!

Alas! I felt terribly guilty, indeed! The long hours of night, alongside my cold rejection, had been the death of my son! I was a murderer!—Not a creator!

I remembered those glittering stars. They'd danced before my eyes, quite spectacularly, winking against the pitch-black. They'd been darkness's one relief. And now—in place of those twirling stars—dwelt two, black eye sockets…

…Embedded within a Death's Head.

A corpse. A decayed and rotted corpse.

Oh—my poor, unhappy Erik. What had I done?

I could not speak. I could not move. I could not think.

And so, I sang to him…

Like any decent Catholic, I would pay my full respects to the dead.

I sang Erik an aria of the _Requiem Mass:_

"_May angels lead you into paradise;_

_May the martyrs receive you at your coming…_

_May a choir of angels receive you,_

_With Lazarus may you have eternal rest…"_

But my requiem did not carry Erik's forsaken soul to his eternal rest. It did not wash him of sin. Instead, it had resurrected him! His tiny, shriveled body only came to life at the music of my voice.

I cursed myself beneath stolen breaths; I damned myself to Hell. Just how diluted _had_ my mind been? No corpse could wear away so quickly. Time is needed for such a thing; Erik had no time.

As I winced down at Erik I saw myself. Sure, I was beautiful…poised and pretty, showcasing everything youth offers.

* * *

Now, in my death—far, far beyond the cold grave—I am faceless, nameless, and soulless…I _live_ Erik's fate.

At the end of time, there's only a "Final Deception"—or, what is more traditionally known to be: Final Judgment.

In death, we all are no different. We all smell of death, have no eyes, no face, and no name.

We truly die.

My plagued mind doesn't burn in Hell or Heaven. It burns in a far more torturous realm: purgatory. All I know is Erik's echoing cry…all I hear is his suffering. All I see is his face. My damnation is a mirrored torture chamber; it's a constant reflection of the pain which I've bestowed.

Purgatory is no place; it's an obsession with a voice, a face, a name…

My purgatory is my unhappy son.

My purgatory is Erik.

Erik was no different than any other child. He only asked for love.

I bless Erik's soul with my final prayer.

_Perhaps, one day, you may be someone's angel…reward her that promise of light, which you forever drain your poor, unhappy mother of. Perhaps, she may see past your mask…into the beauty of your soul. Your voice! That voice! Through her_…_your voice may take flight!_…_And the Angel of Music can be born! She may receive your brilliance! Perhaps, you will not be alone! Perhaps, another woman may fall beneath the spell of your sinfully divine voice!_…_One who's stronger than myself. _

_One who's not afraid to love you…_

During my petty life, I had believed Erik to be different than all the other children. And I was right; _he was extraordinary. _


	2. Little Erik

I really hope you enjoy. =) As you'll see, it's quite different than Kay's Phantom. Please leave a review before you're off. Honestly, in means the world to me! It's the only way for us authors to know that our stories are being read. ;-)

I had taken down this chapter, edited it a lot, and now re-posted it. I've added in references to Oscar Wilde's amazing novel, _the Picture of Dorian Gray. _Yes, I realize that the novel was published in 1890. For the sake of my phic, please suspend belief and assume it was written in the early 1800s. =)

* * *

**PART I—Madeline**

**Little Erik**

_1820—1823…_

It is not so uncommon to hear whispers of prodigies, blessed children and unusually sharp-witted young minds. There are stories of little boys with the talent to recreate the sixteenth chapel before knowing how to pronounce it; or musical geniuses who can read through a libretto with ease before reciting their alphabet without fumbling. There are wise tots who dare to ponder the unsolved mysteries of the universe without the names Socrates or Descartes once passing through their lips. I always believed such hogwash to be the obnoxious ramblings of self-righteous mothers and arrogant brats.

That was before I met Erik.

Indeed, the little devil surpassed my knowledge tenfold before he had reached his seventh birthday. He was an ignorant little boy, who knew nothing of the world outside the manor's barbed walls. The elegant home had been reduced to a cage, and I was his cruel captor. Erik had become a wounded beast, of sorts—his youth spirited away.

Charles and I had honeymooned far out of the country, vacationed in the tropics and basked beneath the glory of high society. Yet, in the end, our terrible Erik knew so much more than I ever could. How was that _humanly_ possible?

I was infuriated, envious, hateful, and scornful. And, on a few occasions, I found myself stooping to the depths of cursing my beloved Charles; it was he who Erik had inherited his uncanny intelligence. It was he who had given me Erik—only to die, forget and abandon me! I was a child raising a child. Nothing could have prepared me for Erik. Once, I had been prideful, beautiful and shamelessly arrogant; ever since Erik's birth, I had become ashamed and ugly.

Erik's twisted face was akin to the _picture of Dorian Gray_; it reflected my corrupted soul. It was a vivid mirror into myself. And, like Dorian Gray, I felt the compelling need to cover and hide Erik from the world's eyes. Yes; if Erik could remain my eternal secret, the world would never have to know of my transformation. I could preserve my youth and beauty…the two things which Erik could never call his own. Indeed—poor Erik would suffer the burden of my _ugly_ sins.

In regards to his education…

Erik looked more corpse than human; needless to say, schooling was far out of the question. My instruction was no match for Erik's wild fire of genius, and his boredom quickly turned to destruction. By an awesome strike of fate, Father Lefevre had been a world renowned professor before taking his holy vows. Never had I met a more sensitive soul than Father Lefevre; he shared in our tragedy. He was our savior! And Father Lefevre was kind enough to visit Erik several times a week, schooling him in various academics and the word of God. Apart from his generous instruction, Erik had entirely himself to thank for knowledge.

While normal little boys triumphed in sullying themselves in the mud…or while pretty young ladies held tea parties for their stuffed friends…or, perhaps, while tiny ladies and gents were experiencing those magical sparks of first love…Erik had committed his every waking hour to mastering the arts. Composing, singing, painting, designing, astronomy, philosophy, psychology, architecture…the list was endless and Apollo's Lair the limit.

But there was one art form which had always been his purpose for existing. One art form had always called to him; far before his conception, music had embedded itself deeply within Erik. Erik was music. Fate had chosen him as the Angel of Music.

Indeed, Erik had honored his calling; he composed a concerto before once setting eyes on a musical note. Erik had scribbled out the divine masterpiece with pitiful, clumsy and shamelessly childish writing—recording his genius with nonsensical symbols…semi-circles, lines, dashes, and the likes. It made no sense to me. I was a foreigner, and Erik had no desire to teach me his language. Yes; it was a secret, musical language…an intimate language in which only he and his music were fluent. Outside of his blooming imagination, the world was unknown to Erik.

He cocooned within a security blanket of seamless dreams. As days became weeks, and weeks melted into years…I was discovering that all Erik had were dreams.

Far before age five, Erik had mastered his academics with little to no effort; it was the word of God which had remained a mysterious and impossible concept to his budding mind. He was easily frustrated, genuinely perplexed and unconvinced by the fables. Only in the presence of the holy Bible was Erik's adolescence painfully visible to me. Erik poked and probed at God's word and His virtues—challenging Father Lefevre's faith with blind ignorance.

* * *

"_And that, Erik, is how we came to know the Ten Commandments and the will of God." _

_The mask could not hide Erik's dumbfounded expression; his eyes showed his utter perplexity. He scratched at his head in intense reckoning. _

"_So…the laws of morality came from two slabs of stones, Father Lefevre? Stones…written by the 'hand' of God?…God has hands? I think you're mistaken…I think Moses was just being clever."_

"_No, son; God was acting as a shepherd."_

"_Shepherds have sheep! Where was his flock?" Erik's lovely voice quivered with some raw, unnamed emotion. He looked so helpless, so lost and so perfectly alone. Erik's next words sounded unbearably tragic. Their bare simplicity was a painful thing to endure. "What should I believe?" Erik and I were not so different; I ached to ask the same question._

_Father Lefevre simply gawked__.__ Erik continued, his frustration escalating to new and dangerous heights. "If God wrote the Ten Commandments with hands…then he must be just like you and me!"_

"_Why is it so hard for you to believe, Erik?" Father Lefevre's voice shook as he struggled to keep his composure. Erik's clever wit was getting the better of him._

_Erik had never been anyone's fool. _

"_I hate it! I hate these Ten Commandments! It's too confusing! My head hurts. Can we forget this…can we pick up on history? History makes sense. History isn't painful like this. This God stuff seems like the works of magician…give me reason to believe and I'll consider it." Father Lefevre sat in a dumb silence, defeated and degraded. I knew he was holding back tears._

_

* * *

_

Father Lefevre had vastly become my sole connection to the outside world…and my last hope for the 'beyond.' For countless reasons, I had never made an effort to discipline Erik; God only knows—he deserved a good whipping.

Erik's blindness eventually caught up with us.

After an especially rueful meeting, Father Lefevre pulled me aside with a haunting seriousness. My breath instantly caught in my chest; my porcelain complexion drained. At that moment, I became a waking, walking corpse; I represented Erik's mother quite nicely. With emotionless and vacant features, Father Lefevre informed me that Erik's education would cease to continue—should his religious questioning and 'harassment' not be controlled. It was an inevitable thing and Erik's greatest tragedy.

I clutched the aged leather of Father Lefevre's hands with a sudden desperation. Our eyes and souls met—two teary orbs—and I assured Father Lefevre that Erik's curiosity was perfectly harmless and no cause for alarm; both Father Lefevre and I secretly knew that Erik's soul was terribly at stake.

We knew this was the beginning of the end.

Father Lefevre patted my hand, steadied my frail body, and led me into the drawing room. I sank into my rocking chair—much like the old widow I was. I heard Father Lefevre take an adjacent seat with an aged grunt. There we both sat! Two, poorly aged widows and widowers! It was almost comical. Poor Erik was killing us!

The crackling hearth blazed before me; despite the winter draft, its long flames were unbearable. I felt as though I was in the presence of Hell's fire. I adjusted my chocolate curls around my fragile shoulders, as the innate brat in me remembered how I must have looked. I knew I was no sight for sore eyes. I had thinned tremendously, and dark circles rimmed my hollow stare. Beautiful but spiritless.

I turned away from the hearth, shudders raking within my thumping breast.

"It frightens me, Father."

He hesitated. "You mean Erik frightens you, my dear?"

I locked his gaze, imminent tears swelling my sapphire eyes. My face bowed as I turned away; I felt them stubbornly sliding down my cheeks. How I longed for a mask of my own! Something to hide behind and preserve my dignity!

"You shan't cry, dear…there, there, Madeline." He sighed, rubbing his temples as he nursed a building migraine. I bit my lip and tried to recall how to be a proper young lady.

"Please forgive my terrible hospitality—I really should have asked sooner." His aged forehead wrinkled at my sudden statement. "As you might imagine, I'm not quite accustomed to the pleasure of a house-guest." He returned my sad and knowing smile. Brushing away the last of my tears, "would you care for a cup of tea?"

Father Lefevre humored me—bless his heart.

"If it shan't be too much trouble."

I stood from the rocking chair, straightening my sweeping skirts with a forced and unconvincing smile. "Not at all. Certainly not after all your kindness."

A deep frown creased Father Lefevre's distinguished features; an emotion I hadn't thought he was capable of flushed his face: hatred.

"Madeline, I would like you to know that I instruct Erik strictly on my own accord. Save your gratitude for one more worthy of myself; I do not pity you nor your Erik. I confess he frightens me, from time to time. Not his face, I assure. His mind knows no limits, Madeline." Father Lefevre sighed, returning to his gentle nature. "My wariness equals my fascination."

I remained silent and still, unblinking and staring forward like a porcelain doll.

The teacup rattled as Father Lefevre over-stirred the steaming liquid. He stared into the tea, visibly battling some inner demon.

"Father Lefevre? Is there something you wish to tell me?" I stammered, eyes drifting away. I chanced a look at the poor man. Half jokingly, "perhaps your tea is too hot for your liking." He leaned back with a shake of his head and met my eyes once more. "Has Erik been neglecting his homework again?"

Father Lefevre chuckled. "I gave up on such a thing ages ago. Shortly after he made it quite clear that he didn't appreciate being mocked by such simplistic projects." Father Lefevre chuckled once more; he set down his tea cup, sighing like an old man.

"As much as I value his superior intellect…forgive me for saying, Madeline—I find myself fearing his rather…unorthodox curiosity."

My eyes squeezed shut, and I felt my heart skip a beat. Then several more.

"You speak of his faith in God, Father?"

"Yes, rightfully so, rightfully so…I am honored to teach your son…really, I am…"—I didn't doubt the sincerity of his words—"I am afraid I was not quite prepared."

I felt a sudden need to collapse to the crutch of me knees, bind my hands in desperate prayer, and beg Father Lefevre not to abandon us. But, instead, I simply stared forward—as I too often did.

"Has Erik seen his face?"

The question was like a whip to my back. I was jolted from my daze. My eyes sprang open, arms crossing hotly across my chest. The question was absurd! But…was it absurd for Father Lefevre to assume that Erik, a seven year old boy, had never seen his own face? Or, was it absurd for Father Lefevre to assume I would ever allow for such a horrific thing to occur?

Not so long before that moment, Erik had asked if he was as "beautiful as me." I forced a small smile, staring at the inhuman and expressionless mask. I searched it for answers; then sadly looked away, as helpless and defeated as before. I thought of the horror which laid beneath the smooth leather. That mask…that was my mask. "Yes, Erik," I found myself answering. "You are a thing of beauty. Perhaps, more so than I." And, after that…I could never bring myself to show him the truth. But this was a state of temporary peace; sooner or later, I knew, things would mutate and turn ugly…

"Why, of course!" I lied to Father Lefevre, vainly trying to restrain resentment. "Why do you so much as ask, Father? Even if he had never been shown…his face…well, I certainly cannot see how my mothering is business of yours!" I bit my lip, sank into the rocking chair, and gave a silent prayer. My face fell into the shelter of my clammy palms. "Oh, forgive me."

"Yes, it was improper of me to ask. I assure my intentions are pure. You see…I cannot help but wonder if Erik's rejection of God stems from his ignorance of humanity."

Father Lefevre brought the silk napkin to his mouth, dabbing at his lips with a nonchalant shrug. "After all, my dear…the Bible teaches we are all created in the image of God."

Father Lefevre died within the season.

Things took a turn for the worst.

* * *

It was the anniversary of Charles' death; I'd committed the murderous sin of carrying my voice beyond the walls of my bedchamber. After hearing the uncensored glory of Charles' Requiem, not a day passed by in which Erik did not beg for my tutorage. His resentment grew with each of my objections—escalating to dangerous heights. Eventually, I gave into his unyielding tantrums—frightened by his wicked temper and even wickeder tricks. Hesitant though I was, I taught him for couple, harmless minutes over the expanse of a couple, timeless days.

The inevitable happened sixty seconds into his third lesson; Erik had become_ my_ maestro, correcting my pitch, posture and breathing habits. Granted, I knew he had excelled well beyond my musical ability before 'his' first lesson; I knew he had feared my scorn—so had suppressed his harmless corrections for as long as he could stomach. I knew he had a desire to shape my voice and sculpt me into a diva…and I despised him for it.

This was the first time I had struck him. It wouldn't be the last.

And Erik…he was always hungry and never content, ready to devour every shred of knowledge tossed at his heel. He could work a telescope with the precision of a seasoned astronomer, recreate masterpieces which he'd never laid eyes on, and sing operas that only prima donnas and leading tenors have the audacity to dare attempt. This frightened me tremendously; his appetite and these abilities flourished at an impossible rate. I knew it would not be long before he devoured my very soul!

His voice haunted my every dream. I often questioned his humanity. His voice was already rich and seductive at the tender age of seven; my deepest fear had been confirmed. No unearthly gift could be a divine blessing. My Erik was not struck by the fire of Heaven.

He seemed to grow hungrier with each passing day. I was terrified of my creation, and did everything in my power to stifle his eager young mind; I prayed it would be discouraging and fill him with disdain for such things. How wrong I was! The more he was refused, the more Erik craved. He was genius enough to immediately recognize my cruel intentions and games. He took his vengeance slyly and with decadent pleasure. I was raising him to be a manipulative and clever little beast.

The moment I'd recognized Erik's extraordinary genius, I made a point to burn all of Charles' treasured books to ashes; and I'd hid the countless trinkets, experiments and wonders which had infested my attic for so many lonely decades. It was the most difficult thing I had ever done. Every sentiment of Charles was a precious gem in my eyes. But, I preferred to sacrifice Charles' remains to fire, rather than have it sullied by Erik's corrupt mind.

As always, Erik had found a way around my cleverness. I rarely ventured down below—down into Erik's domain. At age twenty I hadn't grown out of my fear of the dark. Erik was darkness.

You see, Erik had always lived underground, in a morbid tomb of sorts—like one whom truly was of the dead and buried. It was a dingy and a frightfully lonesome grave which Erik had dwelt in for the greater part of his adolescence. A thick chill consumed the musty air…cobwebs, infested by their eight-legged widows, hung from the low ceiling. Most children would have been terrified to venture anywhere near such a thing!

Erik wasn't like most children.

I, too, quivered at the thought of such a lifeless chamber.

The basement was unbearably cold—simply ruthless—always victim to winter's merciless draft. A few worn-down candles were the one relief to Erik's endless night; within Hell, natural light is non-existent. And with those winding, aged steps, which plunged into a deep, underground pit…Erik's basement was Hell and in all its cruel glory.

And Erik's bed was no more than a sullied and tattered sheet, offering no comfort to his skeletal frame. But it was only a matter of time before Erik adapted to such coldness. Though, I must wonder…had Erik simply accepted such miserable conditions, because he hadn't ever known light? It's an intrinsic balance; for one to understand something—let it be night or day, love or hate, music or silence—one must first know its counterpart. Fear and love are quite similar; I would know.

* * *

The times I'd summoned courage enough to go down below, I had stumbled across countless books, trinkets, and toys. It was becoming! Such a strange spectacle was almost amusing: the string of a yo-yo had served as a bookmark—innocently tucked within a philosophical queries book! Imagine that!

I confronted Erik on a few, rare occasions—demanding to know how these items came to be in his possession. I shouldn't have wasted my breath or courage on such vain escapades; I knew exactly how all of the books, trinkets, and toys had come to be. My little Erik was a thief.

In turn, I understood how the malicious mobs knew of Erik. He had been seen.

My little Erik was a thief and an escape artist. I had boarded up any possible door or window through which I thought he might escape. He was forbidden to venture outside. He was forbidden to look outside. I assure, it was not an intentional act of cruelty on my part. My logic was primitive: out of sight, out of mind…

But Erik's mind was limitless, and the locks were poor competition to his drive for fresh air.

When I would give him the third-degree and demand answers, he'd simply sneer behind his mask.

"Don't you know, maman? I am a magician! I can make anything disappear or appear, if I so much as please." His ugly little head would bow down, suddenly ashamed by his defiance. His hands wrung, thin thumbs twiddling a mile a minute. In a few breaths, his words transformed—turning childish and ridiculously innocent.

Erik's golden eyes would flash with a faint ray of hope as he'd make a futile attempt at earning my motherly love. "Would y-y-you care to see one of my tricks, maman? I-I-I really think you would be rather amused by them! I would like that very much…to amuse you. They are clever and—"

My unusually hostile reaction took me by surprise. Since Father Lefevre's passing, what ever shred of humanity I'd had left was quickly vanishing. The inevitable truth had been unmasked; Erik's fate could no longer hold the burden of my sins. Father Lefevre would have likely turned in his very grave.

"Quiet, you little snake! I could care less about your horrid witchcraft! And besides, any wretch could perform these 'tricks' of yours. You need only quick hands and an evil mind to be a thief! Yes, a thief, Erik! You are no cleverer than the common vagabond or street urchin."

I had lived long enough to only see Erik cry a handful of times; this was one of them. "Maman, I am no thief! I swear to it! I am magical! You don't believe me, do you?" Erik continued, his words buried beneath a gentle and musical sob. "No. You don't believe I could be magical…but I can prove it! I can prove it to you! All I need is you to watch me perform, _only once_—"

As I had feared and predicted, my anger and sorrow caved, suffocating both our damned souls within a landslide of possessed emotion. I thought of my beloved Charles; I thought of the child Erik was supposed to be…the prophesied perfection which he was far from. I thought of Father Lefevre, Charles and Elise's heartless abandonment. I thought of my fallen faith in God. I thought of all those beautiful beaches which I'd never live to see; the grandchildren which I would never live to hold.

I thought of Erik's infernal innocence. I thought of the little demon which I had given life; the little demon which was bringing me to my early grave.

I thought of my tragedy. I needed release.

"Enough from you, or I shall gladly introduce the flogging stick to the wretched skin of your back! Unholy, little thing! You will burn for such crimes. For an eternity, you shall burn! You have broken the will of God far too many times. It was you who sentenced Father Lefevre to his grave! You and your devils! Indeed, he had warned me to take care; Father Lefevre could see the demon in you! And now I as well! And I—I tire of your lies and games! I shan't allow such blasphemy under my roof! I have turned my cheek a last time. And, yes—you'd be destined for Hell…had that not already been your home!"

His tears grew harder, as his skeletal frame rattled and spasmed with choked sobs.

"Be gone! Let me alone! I shall deal with your disobedience later." I continued and my anger escalated; my words were designed to taunt him and inflict infinite pain. "I should like to dine at the new bistro tonight. The menu is quite marvelous. Considering your 'taste' for culture, I'm sure you'd find it most appetizing. I would have brought some home for you to try; it's a pity they only pack doggy bags."

"Doggy bags? May I have a dog, maman? I hear they are often man's best friend. I have no friends! My music is my one companion! I am lonely, and I want a dog, maman. Please—"

"I would allow no such thing. The poor critter would surely die at your hands. You wouldn't know the first thing to do…nor have the heart to care for a dog. Much like you, they are rather needy creatures."

Erik blinked several times in dumb horror, his chest madly rising and falling.

"Like me, maman? Like me!? You refuse me the friendship…of one like me?"

"I spoke too quickly. No one is like you."

Erik glared at me so powerfully and with so much anger—I was sure I'd have a heart attack beneath those burning eyes. For the first time, I knew Erik loathed me with an unnatural passion.

"I shall have you know, maman: urchins do not walk the streets. Their home is the ocean floor, and their eggs float freely in the sea, like dancing stars against the December sky! Unlike the human race, they have no need to search about for a mate…and they are equipped with fierce spines to ward off bullies!"

Erik continued to lecture me, words excitedly exploding from his mouth. I took to straightening out the hem of my dress, smoothing out any imperfections…pretending I was bored with these strange ocean dwellers. Truth be told, I was rather disappointed when he stopped; I never knew their eggs floated about so curiously.

"Did you know that, maman? Did you?"

I folded my arms over my heaving breasts, bravely returning Erik's pungent glare. This was a new side of me; one I did not like and could not control.

"You dare call me stupid? Ignorant!? You ought to hold you tongue!"

"No, no, maman! I did not—"

"Where did you ever acquire such information, anyhow?"

I was sure his face had turned as pale as the mask which hid it. "A book. I found it…in my room…the attic—it was rather dusty, and I only wished to clean it. But the pictures were so pretty…and I—"

"One of Charles' books? One of my beloved Charles' books!? How dare you! How dare you so much as cast your eyes upon his belongings! You know they are forbidden to you! And sacred to me! Your back shall pay dearly for such insolence—Get the flog! Go on, do as I say! Don't you stare at me like a deaf and dumb mute. The bistro can wait."

Erik stood like a shadow, eyes boring into the corrupt and blackened depths of my soul. I trembled beneath his golden stare, shaking like a leaf.

"Maman, is the Bible dusty?" His voice was perfectly composed.

"Did I not make myself clear to you when—"

"Maman," he spoke with an eerie coolness, "why is Papa's book dusty…if it is sacred to you?"

"Never—NEVER—refer to my Charles as 'Papa.' There is nothing of him in you! You are better a vermin spawn, than any part of MY Charles!"

I will never—never—forget the words which he had uttered as he handed me his whipping flog: "I had a feeling you knew nothing of sea urchins."

My twisted thoughts drowned out his morbid beating; I made a silent vow. Tomorrow…Erik would be shown his face. No more pretty lies; he would know the ugly truth.

Tomorrow.

* * *

A magnificently beautiful, heroically sweet, and heavenly voice woke me that night. I nearly swooned from the sheer beauty of it. Intoxicated by the beckoning voice, I stumbled drunkenly from my bed. Hypnotized and borderline hallucinative, I followed the enchanted singing throughout the winding manor. My little feet drummed against the regal floorboards in anticipation. I relaxed within the tempting arms of the voice. I quivered as it embraced me. The delicate murmurs blanketed my soul and wrapped the shaft of my throat. It led me through the slim corridors…down the three flights of stairs…deep down below—down into the womb of Erik's basement.

Needless to say, had I been in control of my deluded senses, I would have never dared to go down below! And especially at the stroke of midnight! But I was powerless. I was defenseless. I was Erik's.

I was drawn to the voice, as a moth is to the throbbing heat of a flame. I needed it. Without the voice—and by the power of my own, fair hands—I would have died that night.

I followed the voice underground. I knew too well; I would have followed that voice into the very depths of Hell.

A charming, porcelain doll—which had been passed down by my grandmother—stared up at me. I had shamelessly slept with her since I had been a girl. The singing slowly subdued. I saw where I was! Trembling, I woke from the spell and regained my five senses. Enraged, fuming, and beyond mad, I stormed over to my dolly. I was steaming and hissing like a wretched teakettle!

I knelt, scooping my precious dolly up into my arms…_and she spoke to me!_ No, no—_she rather cried out to me! _

"I want to stay with Erik, maman! He amuses me with his tricks. Erik is magical!"

I stumbled backwards in utter horror and disbelief. I fell, tangled in my nightdresses' sweeping skirts, pitifully tripping over myself. I cannot say if it was one of Erik's tricks or my budding insanity to blame—but my dolly's eyes blinked, her lush fan of lashes batting attractively up at me. A soft illumination mysteriously ignited; my heart dropped, as I saw that my dolly's cheeks were tear-stained!

My breath caught in my chest. That gentle illumination formed a faint ring; it surrounded and washed over me like a diva's spotlight.

"Maman, maman!" My dolly sniffled. A crystal tear clung to her lashes. She sweetly cooed, "let me sing a requiem I have written especially for you!"


End file.
